"He Wasn't A Very Nice Man"
Nov. 1st, 2010 09:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moose_mcmooseTitle: "He Wasn't A Very Nice Man."
Characters: John
Words: 750
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Justice doesn't always prevail, but Watson is always there to give it a hand.
Notes: Written for thegameison_sh's Challenge 2. Prompt: "dark-fic".
"He wasn't a very nice man." A Study In Pink: 01x01
John Watson has to pool his strength to drag the bulky, raggedy man beneath the archway.
But the army muscle left behind from his years in training and in action had stood him in good stead. It didn't take him long to manoeuvre the man as desired.
John was confident that this was the best place. It was a dank and stagnant cove filled with moss and rubbish. The public rarely walked through the arch, so there was little risk of being seen entering or leaving. The cars driving over the bridge above would drown out the inevitable noise.
He grabs the quivering man's hair, the thick, black strands slipping through his fingers like crude oil, and pulls upwards with force, forcing a painful yelp from the man's lips.
"Please don't kill me." The man shudders, John feels it through his tensed fingers.
"Name me something you've done that makes you worthy of living." John slowly tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. He doesn't expect anything because this man doesn't deserve anything.
John thinks of Afghanistan, he thinks of soldiers, he thinks of the civilians. He thinks of London, he thinks of Jennifer Wilson and the blind old lady. Innocent people needlessly murdered, their lives cut short for no apparent reason. Only one perpetrator paid the price, from John's very own hand no less.
It doesn't add up. The imbalance must be addressed.
And when John saw this man walk free from three brutal murder charges on lack of evidence after months of slaving on his, Sherlock's and Lestrade's behalf, he knew that the man would kill again. It was up to him to stop it.
Spare the innocent. Punish the guilty.
He doesn't give the man much time to answer, the stammering, flapping of the lips like a fish is almost unbearable to watch. Instead John produces a cheaply bought shirt from a charity shop and stuffs it into the man's mouth, securing it with a slip of tape from the roll in his other jacket pocket.
John had expected a little more of a fight. The man was twice as wide as he and four inches taller. But guns had a funny way of persuading people to comply to most given orders.
"Shame," John mutters coldly and sarcastically. "Stand with your back to wall." He waves his gun before resting it on the man's forehead. "Don't make me shoot you on your knees."
The man raises his hands and scurries to the wall, his legs wobbling as he props himself onto the cold, sodden brickwork.
The imbalance must be addressed. John mutters inwardly.
*****
It's sickeningly glorious when he pulls the trigger. He feels the thrilling rush of adrenaline kick through his chest, spreading to his head and fingertips. His pulse quickens and his eyes widen and he watches on.
He watches on as matter sprays onto the back wall of the bricked bridge arch, the once fearful eyes roll back into a now useless skull and the dirty, limp body drops to the floor like a discarded rag doll.
There's the tugging twitches of a smirk on his lips, and he wants to laugh. He wants to laugh so damn hard.
Because he's triumphed. He's eradicated the world of another leech, another parasite.
And no one will miss scum like the man John Watson has just calmly dispatched onto the newspaper strewn ground.
The rats, mice and maggots will make good work of the flesh, the tide will come in and do the rest. And even if the body gets washed up further down the river, well, who's going to suspect an invalided army doctor from the other side of the city?
He makes sure he pulls the used bullet from beneath, and the shirt and tape from the mouth of the bleeding body before launching them into the water, and he doesn't mind that he gets a sliver of blood on his shoes. The rain is heavy, the puddles are deep and it will be easily cleansed off when he strolls some of his journey back to Baker Street.
He's thinks again. Of Afghanistan. Of David Fleming who died with his innards exposed and his leg blown off, courtesy of some arbitrarily place IED. He thinks of the man, the murderer, he's just killed by a single bullet to the head.
And John smiles, because he can see that this imbalance has now been addressed.
Characters: John
Words: 750
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Justice doesn't always prevail, but Watson is always there to give it a hand.
Notes: Written for thegameison_sh's Challenge 2. Prompt: "dark-fic".
"He wasn't a very nice man." A Study In Pink: 01x01
John Watson has to pool his strength to drag the bulky, raggedy man beneath the archway.
But the army muscle left behind from his years in training and in action had stood him in good stead. It didn't take him long to manoeuvre the man as desired.
John was confident that this was the best place. It was a dank and stagnant cove filled with moss and rubbish. The public rarely walked through the arch, so there was little risk of being seen entering or leaving. The cars driving over the bridge above would drown out the inevitable noise.
He grabs the quivering man's hair, the thick, black strands slipping through his fingers like crude oil, and pulls upwards with force, forcing a painful yelp from the man's lips.
"Please don't kill me." The man shudders, John feels it through his tensed fingers.
"Name me something you've done that makes you worthy of living." John slowly tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. He doesn't expect anything because this man doesn't deserve anything.
John thinks of Afghanistan, he thinks of soldiers, he thinks of the civilians. He thinks of London, he thinks of Jennifer Wilson and the blind old lady. Innocent people needlessly murdered, their lives cut short for no apparent reason. Only one perpetrator paid the price, from John's very own hand no less.
It doesn't add up. The imbalance must be addressed.
And when John saw this man walk free from three brutal murder charges on lack of evidence after months of slaving on his, Sherlock's and Lestrade's behalf, he knew that the man would kill again. It was up to him to stop it.
Spare the innocent. Punish the guilty.
He doesn't give the man much time to answer, the stammering, flapping of the lips like a fish is almost unbearable to watch. Instead John produces a cheaply bought shirt from a charity shop and stuffs it into the man's mouth, securing it with a slip of tape from the roll in his other jacket pocket.
John had expected a little more of a fight. The man was twice as wide as he and four inches taller. But guns had a funny way of persuading people to comply to most given orders.
"Shame," John mutters coldly and sarcastically. "Stand with your back to wall." He waves his gun before resting it on the man's forehead. "Don't make me shoot you on your knees."
The man raises his hands and scurries to the wall, his legs wobbling as he props himself onto the cold, sodden brickwork.
The imbalance must be addressed. John mutters inwardly.
*****
It's sickeningly glorious when he pulls the trigger. He feels the thrilling rush of adrenaline kick through his chest, spreading to his head and fingertips. His pulse quickens and his eyes widen and he watches on.
He watches on as matter sprays onto the back wall of the bricked bridge arch, the once fearful eyes roll back into a now useless skull and the dirty, limp body drops to the floor like a discarded rag doll.
There's the tugging twitches of a smirk on his lips, and he wants to laugh. He wants to laugh so damn hard.
Because he's triumphed. He's eradicated the world of another leech, another parasite.
And no one will miss scum like the man John Watson has just calmly dispatched onto the newspaper strewn ground.
The rats, mice and maggots will make good work of the flesh, the tide will come in and do the rest. And even if the body gets washed up further down the river, well, who's going to suspect an invalided army doctor from the other side of the city?
He makes sure he pulls the used bullet from beneath, and the shirt and tape from the mouth of the bleeding body before launching them into the water, and he doesn't mind that he gets a sliver of blood on his shoes. The rain is heavy, the puddles are deep and it will be easily cleansed off when he strolls some of his journey back to Baker Street.
He's thinks again. Of Afghanistan. Of David Fleming who died with his innards exposed and his leg blown off, courtesy of some arbitrarily place IED. He thinks of the man, the murderer, he's just killed by a single bullet to the head.
And John smiles, because he can see that this imbalance has now been addressed.
